


Marquant

by skysedge



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Awkward Crush, Awkward Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 19:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17566469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skysedge/pseuds/skysedge
Summary: Arenvald is too big and Alphinaud is running out of options.





	Marquant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tonko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tonko/gifts).



> ***Hello Tonko! Your prompts for these two plus the hilarious picture meant I really wanted to try my hand at writing them. I hope you like it!***
> 
> Waning for how incredibly silly this is.

Arenvald is too big and Alphinaud is running out of options. Even clad in nothing but his war paint and his unruly mop of blonde hair, he's still outrageously large. Arenvald is simply too _much_.

  
That is to say, Alphinaud has barely finished sketching the outline of one gargantuan calf and he's run out of page. Arenvald is going to have to be footless in this drawing or Alphinaud is going to have to start over. He really, really doesn’t want to do the latter. Not because he’s not patient enough, oh no, he could do this all day. He wants to be as quick as possible for Arenvald's sake.

  
His large friend had agreed to model for a life study without hesitation. He was brave up until the moment his smallclothes were folded on the side table and has since developed a nervous cough and a tendency to ask the same questions over and over.  
Alphinaud can’t fault his modelling ability, though. He’s practically frozen in place, sprawled tastefully across a chaise with his head propped up on one hand. Majestic, really. If only Alphinaud planned ahead enough to fit everything onto the page...

  
“What's wrong?” Arenvald asks, catching sight of Alphinaud’s furrowed brow.

  
He's asked before. This silly, sweet, _caring_ thing he does only makes Alphinaud's sense of guilt worse.

  
“Am I doing something wrong?”

  
“No,” Alphinaud hastily assures him. “You're perfect.”

  
This is precisely the wrong thing to say as Arenvald’s blush continues to deepen and Alphinaud continues to wish he could turn back time.

  
“It's me,” he tries.

  
“What? No. You're perfect too.”

  
The ticking of the clock on the wall is a nice distraction from the mutual embarrassment permeating the air.

  
And so the cycle continues. Alphinaud wishes he had half as much skill in talking to his friends than he does in negotiating matters of state. At least his drawing abilities haven’t abandoned him and he makes quick work of Arenvald's torso, the hefty curves of his muscular arms, even the uncertain smile on his lips. His pencil flies across the paper and for a time it’s nothing other than art and creativity and an appreciation for the Hyuran form.

  
Until he comes back to the feet and the edge of the paper. Perhaps some decoration, something to distract from his error...

  
“Just one moment,” he says, getting to his feet and moving to rummage through the chest at the end of his bed. He’s keenly aware of Arenvald watching him from where he lies poised on the chaise, of the fond smile he’s wearing. Alphinaud grabs fistfuls of a silk blanket that he had folded carefully and pulls it out of the chest in a mess.

  
“Is there a problem?” Arenvald asks. “Did I-"

  
“No,” he says firmly before Arenvald can finish. “It’s as I said. I’ve...”

  
His pride and honest heart struggle against one another for a moment and then he sighs, turning with the blanket held between them like a shield.

  
“I’m afraid I made an error of judgement,” he says quietly. “And I shall need some improvisation.”

  
Arenvald smiles then, all warmth and trust even in such a position, and it’s all Alphinaud can do to not usher him out of the room and sink into a pit of humiliation himself.

  
“I’m sure it’s something that you can fix,” Arenvald says with all sincerity. “You’re so smart, Alphinaud.”

  
“I often doubt that,” Alphinaud says quietly, averting his eyes.

  
He shuffles forwards until he can fling the blanket over a potted plant standing to the side of the chaise and then drags it closer to Arenvald’s feet, straining with the exertion.

  
“Do you need any help with-"

  
“I'm perfectly fine, thank you!”

  
“That plant is almost as big as you.”

  
“I’ll have you know,” Alphinaud huffs, dragging the pot closer inch by inch. “That I’m not yet at my full height.”

  
“Was your grandfather tall?” Arenvald asks innocently.

  
“All Elezen are tall!”

  
Except, admittedly, the young and the unfortunately small statured. It’s not that it bothers him, it’s just that having paid so much attention to Arenvald’s herculean proportions has left him feeling somewhat inferior. They’re both young but only one of them gets mistaken for a child. 

“There!”

  
Alphinaud finishes dragging the pot into place and straightens up with a victorious smile. The silk now drapes down around the plant and over Arenvald's feet and calves and will provide a wonderful edge detail on the sketch. Exceptional. If only he wasn’t so ludicrously large there would never have been a problem.

  
“I don’t see what’s so important about it,” Arenvald says, cutting through Alphinaud’s internal spiralling.

  
“About what?”

  
“Being tall.”

  
There are a lot of things that Alphinaud could say to that. He could explain that he’s tired of being the butt of jokes, of being looked down upon, of always having to fight against first impressions. He could speak about masculinity and strength and bravery, of the heroes and warriors he so admires, not least of which is Arenvald himself. He could say that he wishes people would look at them spending time together and not be determined to find something comical in it. Or he could be honest and say that he simply wishes to feel more like the man he knows he’s becoming.

  
He does none of these, of course. Not with Arenvald still stalwartly holding the pose and smiling at him with a warmth that reaches his eyes. Arenvald doesn’t need to use words to tell not to worry.

  
“Mm,” he agrees meekly. “Neither do I. Shall we continue?”

  
The last session of drawing is the easiest by far. Neither of them talk but the air feels lighter somehow, nowhere near as tense. Arenvald stops blushing and Alphinaud only regrets not shading it onto the paper a little. Soon enough the picture is finished and Alphinaud sets down his pencil with a sigh of satisfaction.

  
It's wonderful. Majestic. Arenvald is made for capturing on paper. Alphinaud had been meaning to give his friend the gift as a thanks for the practice but now he’s rather inclined to keep it. Arenvald is the reason the picture is so entrancing and Alphinaud can’t very well keep _him_ in his chambers after all.  
Across the room, Arenvald stretches his arms high above his head with a groan of relief.

  
“That’s better.”

  
Alphinaud refuses to acknowledge the heat in his cheeks.

  
“Quite. You can redress.”

  
Arenvald only puts his smallclothes back on before moving to stand at Alphinaud’s shoulder. His eyes widen and he draws a breath of disbelief as he looks upon the drawing. It’s a reaction that could mean almost anything and so Alphinaud remains quiet until Arenvald drags his eyes away from the page and meets Alphinaud's own.

  
“Is this how you see me?” he asks, with wonder in his voice. “I’m nothing so grand as all this.”

  
Alphinaud is at a loss for words for a moment before shaking his head slowly in disagreement.

  
“No, my friend,” he says softly. “This is how you _are_.”

A young man full of life. A survivor with scars that speak of his misfortunes. A hero with a kind smile and a humble heart. A picture can't do that justice.

  
_This is but a fragment of who you are._

  
He almost says it but then Arenvald is furrowing his brow in thought.

  
“If only I could do the same for you,” he says, looking between the picture and Alphinaud and stepping almost between them. “Show you how you are. To me. But I can’t draw at all. Maybe I...”

  
Alphinaud’s breath catches and his usual eloquence escapes him in a nervous laugh.

  
“Drawing isn’t necessary to-”

  
He’s silenced by the tentative press of Arenvald’s lips to the corner of his mouth. It's not a drawing, or an explanation, but it’s something. Suddenly Alphinaud understands that their heights, or statures, or differences, mean nothing at all.

  
“Next time,” Arenvald says, straightening up with unabashed colour high in his cheeks. “Let’s find a bigger sheet of paper.”

  
To hide behind, perhaps. Alphinaud laughs and touches a hand to Arenvald's arm.

  
“Agreed.”


End file.
